Heavy Rain
by Shironette
Summary: AU. John Watson has worked at St. Bart's Mental Institution for many years, but he's never met anyone quite like this.


Thank you for attempting this tale of mine.

This story has been slowly developing in my mind for some time, but as I got it onto the page I wasn't quite sure how I was supposed to publish it, or if I was going to publish it at all. It's too short to be a novella and too long to be a short story. So, I decided that in the spirit of the BBC show, I would release it in three separate parts. This is the first, and there will be two more to come, so follow if it fits your fancy. I'd really appreciate your feedback in whatever form it comes.

Please enjoy.

**I**

This is the personal, private record of Dr. John H. Watson.

For the last several years, I've been striving to adjust back to a slow-paced lifestyle. I've worked for St. Bartholomew's Mental Institution for three of those years, serving as a nurse in the solitary dorms, unit B, rooms 220-240. Our schedule is very stable. At 7:30, 12:30, and 5:00 every day, I help serve meals. Before bed I administer the patients' medicines, and be sure that the lights are out by 11:00. If any of the patients have hurt themselves, I stitch them up and give them bandages. Not always the most enjoyable job, but fulfilling nonetheless.

Typically the patients who come to stay in unit B fit neatly into one of two groups. Group one is composed of people who are anxiety-ridden or severely bipolar, people who need a steady schedule and a quiet atmosphere in order for them to recover. Group two is composed of trouble patients, men and women who had already spent time in one of the other units, who had stirred up trouble or broken one too many rules, and were held in unit B for punishment.

However, in the summer of 2012, we recieved a patient who fell into neither of these categories. His birth certificate read William Scott Holmes. He was tall, at least 1.8 m, with a mop of curly black hair and very defined cheekbones. He was thin as a rail, a diagnosed anorexic with a massive addiction to cocaine. He had been brought to a London hospital after overdosing, and transferred here after a series of "psychotic episodes". Supposedly he had stabbed a male nurse in the leg. He seemed fairly docile when he arrived, though, and it was hard for me to believe that he had gotten that violent. Never even spoke a word. He was assigned to room 221, and we had very clear instructions to keep him away from any other patients.

The first day of his visit was particularly gloomy. He hadn't slept at all, only paced around, silent. It was time for breakfast delivery, and I tried my hardest not to disturb him as I slipped into his room.

"Good morning, William," I smiled, carrying in his breakfast tray.

He glanced at me with a slight bit of confusion, then turned back to the wall. I set the tray down at his desk.

"My name's John." I said, trying my best to sound cheerful. "I'll be your nurse. If you need anything, you can just ask for me. I brought you your breakfast for today, grits and fruit slices. Breakfast will come every morning at 7:30, lunch at 12:30, and dinner at 5. Daily inspection is at 2:30. Alright?"

His eyes still glazed over, he gave no signal that he heard me.

I pressed my lips together. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," I finished, adding in a firm nod to the end. I made my way back to the door, shutting it and locking it firmly behind me.

There wasn't anything particularly strange about this patient, but at the same time there was something different about him, something odd. He almost didn't even seem human, the way he moved, the way his eyes jumped across the walls. He gave me the jitters, and left me feeling a little odd myself.

I shook him from my mind and hurried off to finish breakfast.

* * *

Holmes left his food untouched for the entire day. Not surprising considering his diagnosis, but something inside me still hoped he would try it. He spent most of his time on the floor with his back against the wall, quiet, tapping his fingers against the ground. The female nurses chattered about his cheekbones and whether or not he would make it through the week without a suicide attempt. As for me, I hoped all the best for him, and decided to focus my efforts on getting him to eat.

At lunch on the second day, the unit supervisor Dr. Greg Lestrade came around for daily inspections, and sought me out. He seemed very worried, specifically about Mr. Holmes.

"Molly told me he hasn't eaten since he's arrived," He said.

"Yes, sir. I've set out his food on schedule every day, but he hasn't even touched it. I asked if I could get him anything specific, anything he might've liked, but he doesn't even reply. Just sits there, drumming his fingers." I leaned in. "Is he alright? Not... gone mad, has he?"

"As far as I know," He sighed. "The hospital said there was no major brain damage occuring from the overdose. But they did give me a warning. Said he rattled off things as if he could read their minds."

"Read their minds, sir?"

"Yeah, that's what they said. Little strange if you ask me. But besides that, if he refuses to eat, we'll have to convine him somehow." Lestrade picked up the lunch tray, motioning with his head toward the hall. "Let's go have a little chat with him, shall we?"

We went together into room 221, where the man in question was sitting bundled in the usual corner, with the sheets from his bed wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He recognized Lestrade, but didn't look very happy about it. I locked the door while the doctor set up his meal.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," He said, nodding to him. "I'm sure you remember me. I thought it was about time to have a little heart-to-heart with you."

Lestrade took a seat at the edge of the bed, and I stood a few paces away, beside the door. William glanced at me briefly, then back to the wall.

"William, I hope you know that John and I are on your side. We both know that you're not exactly happy to be here, but we've seen that you need a little bit of help to keep yourself healthy." He waited, but when he saw no signs of response, he continued. "I've been told that you have been refusing to eat. Your well-being is very important to us here, and we will encourage that you eat as a matter of your own free will. If you choose not to, however, we will be forced to take steps to ensure that you do."

He stayed silent.

"I brought you your dinner for today. Hopefully it'll suit you. If there's anything you'd prefer, anything that you'll eat, you can let John know, and he'll get it for you."

Still no answer.

Lestrade stood, nodding to me, and I unlocked the door.

* * *

Of course he didn't eat. This time, though, he took the liberty of decorating both himself and his room with salad dressing. The nurses clamoured about the way he paced around his room at night, and Anderson complained about having to clean ranch off the walls.

Holmes' medical examination that morning didn't go very well, either. A stone and a half underweight. That would have to change.

Lunch was composed of a cheese, ham, and lettuce sandwich served cold on whole wheat bread. It didn't look very appetizing to me, but Lestrade thought it might be good for William. Lots of organic foods, not the kind with all the preservatives. He needed the nutrients, anyway. I set down the plate and watched as the man slumped into his corner of the wall.

"Dr. Lestrade warned you that if you didn't eat, we would have to try a different approach," I said, taking a seat in the armchair beside the window. "So go ahead. Eat. I won't be leaving until you do so."

He looked at me with a flash of defiance in his eye. But I was under instruction not to leave the room until his food was at least partially eaten, and so that was what I was going to do. Even if it would take hours. Which it did.

The time alone gave me a lot of time to study the man. Past his dark bags and hollow cheeks, he was young. His eyes flickered with energy that I had only ever seen in younger patients. He looked intelligent, very intelligent, but angry. I felt myself swell with pity for him. He deserved to live life freely, not to be cooped up in some mental institution. Not to crave a needle or struggle to force himself to eat. I wondered what had happened, what had caused him to become this way. But a small part of me reminded me that, as his nurse, it was better I didn't know.

We passed the time in silence, save the rhythmic tapping of Holmes' fingers. I almost dozed off a few times. At two, he grew restless and moved over to the plate, picking at the edges of the sandwich. He pulled it apart, laying all the ingredients side-by-side in careful order. He investigated the lettuce, the cheese, the ham, the bread. Then, with an angry glance in my direction, he removed a portion of the lettuce and stuck it into his mouth. I was overjoyed; it had _worked_, by god, it had worked.

Throughout the next ten minutes, he continued to bite off small bits of the lettuce and the cheese, pushing the slice of ham off the plate and onto the floor. The bread he wadded up into a little ball and tossed across the room. But he ate the entire leaf of lettuce and most of the cheese. He then returned to his wall, tapping the floor, signalling that it was time for me to leave.

"Thank you, William," I said, smiling as I collected the plate. "You've done very well to eat all that. I'm proud of you."

He kept his eyes from mine, brow furrowed.

* * *

Lestrade was glad to hear that Mr. Holmes had responded so quickly to the new strategy, and decided that I should continue to sit with him for his meals through the next few days. Molly Hooper, another nurse assigned to my same rooms, was happy to do extra work so that I could cater to William. She was worried about him as much as I was. He had struck a strange chord in both of us, and we both were entranced by him.

So I continued sitting with him during every meal-time. Eventually he would eat, but not until I spent at least two hours in the room with him. Usually he didn't do much, only sat with his back against the wall, drumming out a song against the floor. Sometimes he paced. But he never spoke. I sat in the armchair beside the window, my hands in my lap, studying my shoes and the surrounding room.

Really, it wasn't all too terrible a living space. The bathroom had a separate door, and the dorm contained a bed, an armchair, and a desk with a bolted-down stool. A modest window had a nice view of London rooftops, though it was a little fogged over from the recent rain. The walls lacked personality, but were painted a soothing cream color, with a quaint white trim. And then there in the corner was Mr. Holmes, his legs curled against his chest, fingers tapping and eyes fluttering throughout the empty spaces.

Nearly a week of the same behavior passed without the man so much as uttering a syllable. He had eaten bits and pieces of his meals, but had never fully finished one. I felt that he was beginning to improve, even if it was slowly. Lestrade pushed me to try to get him to communicate with me somehow. And so when I went in on Tuesday, I tried to strike up a conversation.

"I'm very happy with the progress you've been making, William," I told him, honestly. "You've eaten a lot the past week. I'm proud of you. Dr. Lestrade is very happy, too. He says that if you will start eating, he would consider moving you out of solitary. Find you a room-mate in unit C. You'd get to interact with people there. Join a therapy group. Lestrade knows a very nice woman named Mrs. Hudson that he'd like you to meet sometime." I touched my lip, feeling a little awkward talking to a silent man. "What do you think of that, William?"

"Sherlock."

I froze. His deep voice surprised me. "What?"

"My name is Sherlock," He repeated.

"Sherlock," I murmured, testing it out. It rested awkwardly on my tongue. "Well, sir, your ID and birth certificate read William Scott Holmes."

"Yes. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Nickname." He tsked.

I laughed. "I'm sorry. I'll call you Sherlock, then."

He nodded and drew up his knees to his chest.

I was a bit at a loss for words, not sure what to do in response to him finally speaking. "Why didn't you ever answer me before?" I asked.

"Because you were boring," He replied. He got up, taking his dish, and began to pick apart the contents of his plate. A raw (ranch-less) salad was in a bowl beside his right hand, and he picked up a few leaves from it, putting them in his mouth as he pulled apart his bread roll and poked the pile of sqash by the side. I watched him quietly, studying him again in a new light, his deep voice still menacing in the back of my mind.

* * *

"He _spoke_ to you?" Lestrade asked, his tone lined with disbelief.

"Yes. He said I should call him Sherlock," I answered.

"_Sherlock_. Odd. Is that it?"

"About it."

"About? Give me the whole, Watson."

I shifted my weight. "I asked him why he wouldn't talk to me before, and he said that I was boring." I rubbed the back of my neck. "I'm not really sure what he meant by that, though. Maybe he wants someone else to stay with him? What should I do?"

Lestrade scratched his chin. "Well, John, why don't you go down to my office and read through Mr. Holmes' case file. Maybe if you know a little bit more about him, you'll be able to 'interest' him. Try to get him to open up to you."

"Wouldn't it be smarter to let one of the therapists do that? Maybe Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'll talk to her and see when she can start seeing him. But in the meantime, you've done well so far, I want you to see how much you can get out of him. Open him up as far as you can." He handed me the key to his file cabinet. "Mary will let you into the office. Go take a look."

"Alright, sir."

"And, John." Lestrade put his hand on my shoulder. "Remember. This guy's a psychopath. Don't let him get to you."

I held eye contact for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

* * *

When I served breakfast the next day, Sherlock was laying flat on his back across the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I studied him for a few seconds through the window, checking to see if he was ill or bloody. But he was neither, so I opened the door and came inside.

"Good morning, Sherlock," I smiled. "Did you get a good night's sleep?"

He didn't answer, so I went directly to his desk and set the plate down.

"I'm sorry I bored you the other day, I hope that this morning we might be able to talk a little more." I turned my head, looking carefully at him. "Sherlock? Are you asleep?"

He blinked once, then continued to stare. I sighed, sitting down in the armchair beside the window and folding my hands across my lap. Sherlock made no movement, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. His new position confused me, and I wondered if he was in pain, or maybe just too exhausted to move. He hadn't been sleeping well at all since he arrived. Typical, but still worrisome. I crossed my legs and made myself comfortable.

"Well, I read through your files yesterday, Mr. Sherlock," I said, trying my best to sound happy. "You said you were a detective, hmm?"

He turned his head to face away from me. Progress.

"You weren't on any payroll, of course, but hey, amateur detective? I can believe it. You seem like you could pull it off. I found your website, too... Science of Deduction, was it? Very interesting. It must have taken you years to compile all that information, I've never read anything more thorough concerning the different kinds of tobacco ash." I tapped my knee. "240, was it?"

"243." He grumbled.

"243, right. Sorry, I forget these things." I chuckled. There's the ticket. "You must have quite the private library at home. Do you own lots of books, Sherlock?"

He turned to look at me, his eyebrows furrowed. "The flat's quite cluttered."

"I believe it." I nodded. "Do you live alone?"

"No."

"Who do you live with, then?"

"A few goldfish."

A wide grin spread across my face. He was beginning to sound like a child. "Goldfish, eh?"

"Yes. I keep two in each tank. Feed them specific amounts of food each day. Make sure every one is healthy. I breed my own, too, so that I can survey their genetic ancestry easily. I give them increasing amounts of cyanide to test their resistance and to see if they can evolve to build up the proper tolerance. It's very interesting, if I do say so myself. Though they smell after a while."

I stared at him, trying to decide if he was kidding or not. His eyes sparkled with pride. He wasn't kidding.

"I do hope someone has been around to feed them," He added. "I would hate for all my careful planning to have gone to waste."

"I'm sure they've been properly taken care of," I nodded.

"You're lying." Sherlock narrowed his eyes and swung his legs over the side of the bed, beginning to pace around the length of the room. I remained in the armchair, my limbs unwilling to move. I worried that my eagerness to strike up conversation had unknowingly opened Pandora's box. He began to talk again very quickly. "When exactly am I allowed to leave, Dr. Watson? I have experiments I need to finish, cases that need closing. I'm sure the clients have simply piled up. Perhaps they'll be waiting in front of my door like a mob. A hellish mob."

He paused, looking at me.

"Well?"

"You can't leave until we're certain that you're mentally grounded, Mr. Holmes," I answered.

"Dammit, I'll never get out of here." He shot me a glare. "I never was sane, as you would put it."

"Who told you that?"

"My brother. My parents. My classmates." He continued to pace. "Freak. Alien. Psychopath."

"Do you believe them? Do you think you're a psychopath?"

"Pssh, of course not. I'm a highly-functioning sociopath. Exactly my point." He sat down angrily at the desk. "And I only eat organic foods."

"Well, everything on that plate is organic. Dr. Lestrade made sure of it."

"Tell Lestrade to check his sources," He grumbled, picking apart the breakfast wrap he had been given. He separated the eggs and the sausage, putting them in little piles, with the tortilla off to the side. "This sausage has been frozen and re-packaged twice. The eggs are from a less than adequate farmer who has been giving his hens hormones. The lettuce is acceptable, but at this point it's been soaked between the eggs and the meat, as has been the wrap. I won't eat any of it." He picked up the plate with all the separated parts and dropped it in my lap. "Please go away."

I sat there for a moment, at a loss for words as I looked down at the scattered piles. Sherlock laid down on his bed, his back to me.

"Well, you still have to eat something," I muttered, standing. "What else do you want me to bring you?"

"Salad. No dressing. And one of those bread rolls, the Scottish ones. I couldn't tell the brand, but those. And water. A large glass of water."

I sighed, walking back toward the door. "Alright, just give me a few minutes."

I took the plate back to the cafeteria, asking the attendant to make up a bowl of dry salad and to look for any kind of bread roll that had been recently shipped from Scotland. He looked at me suspiciously, then went into the pantry to find it, while I waited just outside the assembly line.

Molly found me there a few minutes later. She seemed a little shocked. "John? Aren't you supposed to be with Holmes?" She asked.

"Yes, but I decided to slip out and grab a snack first." I huffed. "Sherlock started talking again. Said he only eats whole foods and demanded me bring his dish back."

"Lestrade made sure he was only given whole foods, though," She said.

"That's what I told him. But he went on this long explanation of how the sausage had been frozen twice and the hen who laid his eggs had been given hormones."

"There's no way he could know that." Molly said, furrowing her eyebrows. "Maybe he is crazy, after all."

"Maybe. But I'd might as well play along. No use arguing with a mental case." I chuckled. "He said he feeds his goldfish cyanide. Who in their right mind would do that?"

We laughed about it, and Molly skirted off to finish her breakfast deliveries. I took the bowl of salad and plate of the shipped-from-Scotland rolls and headed back toward room 221.

Sherlock was reasonably quiet as he ate his salad and rolls. He finished all his lettuce and a roll and a half before announcing he was finished. With each bite he took I grew more and more pleased with myself. I had gotten the anorexic to eat, the mute to speak. All in a day's work. When he was finished, I dropped off his dishes in the kitchen and dashed off to let Lestrade know about Sherlock's improvement.

He was very happy to hear the news, and said that I should continue to talk with him and continue to help him adjust. At one point I asked him about Sherlock's goldfish, and if anyone had been to the man's house to take care of it. He assured me that he would talk to the hospital director and send someone out right away to see if his fish were still salvageable. It made me happy to know I was helping him in some tiny way as that.

Mid-way through the day, some time between lunch and dinner, I realized the difference in my leg. Some time ago I had been diagnosed with a psychosomatic limp, one that always nagged in the corner of my mind, always painful when I went up the stairs or tried for a quick jog. No amount of physical therapy could help, and no amount of counseling lessened it, either. I had come to terms that it was something I would have to live with. But now, it had mysteriously disappeared.

I sat wondering about this while Sherlock ate his dinner. Why had it gone away? After all the money I wasted on treatment, it just suddenly throws in the towel and disappears? It was after I'd met this man. I'd been so excited about his improvement that I'd run to Lestrade. I'd _run_, hadn't I? And there was no pain, not even a hint of it. Sherlock glanced up at me, a devious expression on his face, and I quietly considered if he was possessed by a demon.

"You have questions," He said, taking a bite of beef.

"No, not necessarily, just..." I glanced at him. "Who are you, exactly?"

"Who am I? You've read my file, haven't you."

"...Yes. How did you-"

"You would imagine that documents like those would enclose _some_ kind of clue as to who I am." He wiggled his eyebrows, continuing on the beef.

"It doesn't seem accurate."

"Accurate how? I can make it accurate."

I opened my mouth, then shut it again, laughing at myself.

"Keep talking, please. I'm very interested." He popped a piece of lettuce into his mouth.

"You don't seem like..." I rubbed my forehead. "Why am I even saying this."

"Because you're curious, John." He flashed a smile, swallowing. "I don't seem... What? Like a man who would overdose on cocaine? No, no I most definitely am not. I'm too careful, too careful about everything. OCD about some things, scatterbrained about other things. Peculiar is the right term to use, I think. I divide my food into piles and yet my flat is a disaster. Where, then, did this chasm of interest come from? Obviously a mental breakdown. You should know these things by now, being a doctor."

"Actually, I'm a nurse," I corrected.

"Usually men aren't quick to define those things, but you're different, I like you." Sherlock chuckled. "You are a doctor, though. Dr. John Watson. You spent several years in the army, discharged after a serious injury. You're trying to get by in London on an army pension, but it's hard, getting harder. You like it here at St. Bart's but you don't think you get quite the recognition you deserve. Nevertheless, you're still here. Why? Well a good guess woulf say it's because you care about the people here, the patients, or the staff, or both. Perhaps it's because of your own mental trials. A bit of a shot in the dark, yes, but there's proof. Your limp's psychosomatic. You stay up most nights tossing and turning from nightmares. You feel alone, trapped in civilian life, aching for one taste of danger, one crumb of the unknown, of the strange. That is why you are so interested in me, John Watson. That's what brought you here, to me."

He put another bite of beef in his mouth, chewing as he studied my face, relishing in every wrinkle of confusion.

"How..." I whispered.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," He replied, waving his fork. "the world's one and only consulting detective. And to answer your question, no, I am not a man who would accidentally overdose on cocaine."

He picked up his empty plate and threw it onto the ground, its clamoring making me jump to my feet. He laughed at me.

"I don't mean to scare you. I'm just so damn _bored_ in here, John," Sherlock said, his eyes welling up with tears although his lips were still curled up into a smile. "Please, let me out. I'll tear you to pieces if you'll let me."

I quickly scooped up the plate and fork, making a dash toward the door. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I have to go."

"Go on, then, John," He shouted. "Don't let me stop you."

* * *

I sat in Lestrade's office, my hands trembling, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Molly was seated beside me, rubbing my shoulders as she spoke. "You need to take him off of Sherlock's room, Greg," She pleaded, pulling herself close to me. "The man's about scared him senseless. Look at poor John. He's shaking like a leaf."

"I'm sorry, John, I really thought you could handle it," Lestrade said quietly.

"You don't understand, Greg," I hissed, looking up at him. "He knew me. He knew everything about me."

"I'm sure it was just dumb luck," He countered.

"No. He knew my limp was psychosomatic. He knew I'd been in Afghanistan, he knew I was a doctor. He knew I have nightmares. Who the hell else would know something like that! I've never met the man in my life. The only one he's talked to while he's been in this damn hospital has been me. He could read my _mind_, Lestrade."

"That's impossible."

"Then how did he know I was a doctor?"

"Maybe he picked up on something you said, something only a doctor would know."

"No, Lestrade. You weren't there, you don't know. He _knew_ it. He _knew_ everything about me."

"John." The unit director walked over to me, leaning over to stare me directly in the face. "He's a psychopath. He's insane."

I shook my head. "He's not insane, Greg. If anything, he's not insane."

He straightened. "Molly, get Anderson to take Mr. Holmes' room. I want John nowhere near that dorm."

"Yes, sir," She stammered.

"John, why don't you take the rest of the day off. You need to calm down."

"No, Lestrade, I-"

"Those are my orders, Watson." Lestrade put his hand on my shoulder. "Please. Go home. Take care of yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

I hardly slept at all that night. My hands finally stopped shaking by the time I got home, but my brain was still rattled. How on earth did Sherlock know all those things? Why did my limp suddenly go away after meeting him? Was everything he said true? Or was he really insane? I was starting to think I was the insane one. I threw punches at my sofa cushions, paced several thousand times around the flat, and finally took a few sleeping pills to help get my mind to rest before the next morning.

Regardless of my lack of sleep, I was at work early that morning, in Lestrade's office, begging to be put back onto room 221. He, of course, declined, saying that Anderson could handle it at least for the day, and that I should help out in the cafeteria in the meantime.

While I helped to serve up the breakfast trays, I heard my stand-in complaining to his friend Sally about my patient.

"He's bloody crazy, I'm telling you," He said, practically shouting. "Always asking, 'Where's John? Where's John?' Didn't sleep a wink last night, just kept pacing around the room like an animal."

"What a freak," She laughed.

"Exactly. He's a freak. Deserves to be up there in unit A, with all the other psychopaths." Anderson angrily threw a towel over the counter and into the kitchen sink, then turned to me. "I don't know how you put up with him, Watson. That man needs a straightjacket."

"He's not too bad," I shrugged.

"No, he is that bad," Anderson seethed. "The smug bastard."

I glanced at him. "Maybe he just doesn't mix well with others his kind."

He narrowed his eyes. "Don't you be getting smart-ass with me, too."

Anderson stomped away, and I finished lining up the trays. I noticed that no one had bothered to make sure Sherlock's meal had been all-whole, so I took the time and replaced his wheat rolls with his shipped-from-Scotland rolls, adding a bit of lettuce to the side for good luck.

Turns out that the rolls and salad were all that Sherlock touched that day. It wasn't part of the meal plan, and at first Anderson grumbled about taking it to him, but I insisted. He returned with a tray full of uneaten fruit and oatmeal, thoroughly proven wrong. It was pretty funny to me, though, and I entertained the thought that Sherlock had known I put the extras on the tray for him.

In the time I had to myself, I realized that what Sherlock said about me was true. I was itching for something to capture my attention, something dangerous and different. His case gave me a rush of adrenaline as I tried to figure him out, tried to decide what my next approach would be. When I washed the trays, I took careful time with Sherlock's. When we prepared meals, I made sure he always had a shipped-from-Scotland roll and an extra puff of lettuce. When I passed his door, I could almost hear his voice, its wavering barritone vibrating through the walls. Maybe it wasn't healthy to remain so focused on him, but to be perfectly honest, I didn't care.

Dinner was a plate of lasagna, alongside a salad and roll. Anderson was grumbling as he came to pick it up, and grumbling as he walked toward the unit. I could tell that something nasty was going to happen. I wasn't quite sure what. But when he walked back around the corner a few minutes later with spaghetti sauce in his hair, I couldn't say I was surprised. Lestrade and the other nurses from my division were having quite a laugh over it, much to his annoyance.

"Dammit, Lestrade!" Anderson screeched, grabbing at the kitchen faucet. "Why did you have to assign me to this bloody job! It's obvious all he wants is John! He's been degrading me all day, refusing to eat anything for hours, insulting me in every sort of way possible."

"I only gave you the job for a day, Anderson," He chuckled, "You couldn't handle it for twenty-four hours?"

"Not with that freak-show!" He bellowed, shoving his head into the sink. The water ran red with sauce.

"Did he throw everything in your face or did he eat something?" Lestrade asked.

"I think the bread's still in there," He answered, grabbing blindly at a towel. "I wasn't about to check."

Molly glanced at me, knowingly. I leaned back on the counter with a smirk.

* * *

At about six, I gently eased open Sherlock's door. He was sitting proudly at the head of his bed, his shipped-from-Scotland roll nestled in his hand. He was busy breaking small pieces off and sticking them into his mouth, half of it already eaten. He hardly even glanced up.

"Had a little domestic, did you?" I chuckled. A large red stain ran down the wall and onto the floor, with specks of meat and cheese still enlodged. A matching stain winked from the front of his clothes. I shut the door, careful not to step in the mess.

"He was annoying," Sherlock said, chewing. "Tell Lestrade not to send him again."

"I don't think he will." I smiled, setting his platter of cheese, ham, and lettuce on the bed in front of him. He eyed the plate closely.

"That isn't the same ham as before," He pointed out.

"Er, no, it's not." I sat down in the armchair. "I went out and bought it myself. Whole foods market. I'd hoped you would like it. Better than the other kind, anyway. You need more protein in your diet, and the cheese isn't quite doing it for you.

He picked up the meat and sniffed it. "Seems alright."

"Good. I'll tell them to add it to your meals instead of the usual ham."

Sherlock broke off a piece and stuck it in his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue before breaking off another piece. I watched him as he quietly assembled a sandwich with his leftover bread and pieces of lettuce and cheese. I noticed that he was eating faster and in bigger portions than he had in the beginning. Good. Lots of progress.

"I was afraid I had scared you away," He said.

"You did. But it was alright." I stretched my leg. "Tell me, who told you all those things about me?"

"No one did."

"Then how did you know them?"

"Deduction, John. Instead of just seeing things, I observe them. I observe everything. It's my curse. I observe that your hair-cut and way of walking point to service in the military. I observe that the way you limp doesn't figure a physical injury, but a mental one. I observe that your friend Anderson is having an in-office affair in his unnaturally feminine smell. And I observed that you were within reach of me by the way you added extra ingredients to my meals. All it took was a little mess."

"That could've been anyone, putting lettuce and bread."

"Yes. But it wasn't."

I sat back with a small smile. "That's amazing."

He blinked. "Amazing?"

"Yes. That's absolutely amazing."

"That's not what people usually say."

"It's not? Well what do they usually say?"

Sherlock's eyes glazed over, and he looked back down at his plate, falling silent.


End file.
